


Flashpoint

by RenderedNull



Category: Genghis Khan - Miike Snow (Music Video)
Genre: Gen, bc icarus_chained knows their stuff and that is a quality name tbh, go and read their fic if u havent bc it is a+++++++++!!!!!, there is one swear in this, yes the villainous egg is called sphinx
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-02
Updated: 2016-02-02
Packaged: 2018-05-17 21:08:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5885236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RenderedNull/pseuds/RenderedNull
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When you've achieved so much, you never forget the opportunities that get you there.<br/>If they can be called that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Flashpoint

**Author's Note:**

> Shoutout to Icarus_Chained/honourablejester.tumblr.com for being chill with me using their naming of supervillain

It’s not so much the fact it’s acid, but the fact it’s boiling which is painful. 

It sears his skin, small, white-hot pinpricks against his nose and cheeks, mere inches away from the rumbling and bubbling surface. He won’t hiss or scream in pain. He won’t show weakness. There’s a firm hand, wrenching the back of his collar, while an elbow digs into the small of his back.

He feels scared. He feels angry.

“-And what is it with all of you people’s dreams of grandeur? You’re _nothing_ , only good for taking orders and dealing with the consequences when someone fucks up.” The hands are firm, and he’s focusing carefully on staying as upright as possible, gripping onto the side of the vat even if there’s only a few layers of fabric separating his gloved palms and the burning metal.

“Honestly, if nothing else this should teach all of you people-” The voice addresses the group of people behind them, and the pressure releases slightly. “-Not to go around with ideas of your own in your head. You don’t question orders. You don’t question plans. And, most importantly-” There’s a surge of movement against his back as he’s pulled away from the vat.

“You don’t question _me!_ ” At this point, he knows that the palms against his back are getting ready for the final shove, and the tank of boiling acid looms threateningly before him.

He’s going to die. Horribly.

There’s a sad kind of resignation, in the corner of his mind, that this is just how it works. He’s another expendable body, someone that can be tossed away when plans- or emotions- go awry. But he doesn’t _want_ to die. 

He wants to orchestrate grand schemes on a global level. He wants to have allies who respect him, opponents who fear him. He wants to go for drinks with that girl he met at the weekend, the one with soft brown curls and muted red lipstick. He wants dental insurance. He does _not_ want whatever this is.

Now, there are two things he’s good at. The first, which has earned him no favors in an organisation that values brute strength over grace and poise, is dancing. He operates his body like a finely tuned instrument, limbs moving in perfect sync to an unheard rhythm, lips silently mouthing the words to a song that has not yet been written. Perhaps, in another life, he could have been a composer.

The second thing, which he actually has a degree in, is physics. He’s a small guy, standing at maybe 5’6” if he stands up straight. His boss is easily taller and heavier than him, which would give them an advantage- if it weren’t for the way their momentum is angled perfectly into the vat.

He moves instinctively, twisting his body underneath the outstretched arms, pulse racing as the need to _survive_ dictates his calculated movements. One slip could send him back into the heat, after all. There’s a moment, where he captures his boss’ eye, that he sees the shock and surprise there. That he sees the raw _fear_ there.

(A thrill goes up his spine, present only for a single moment, and he feels _powerful_.)

He’s out of the way of the hands, twirling in a flourish on one perfectly extended leg to face his boss, but they’re still moving towards the vat. A foot hooks around his boss’ ankle, and tugs. Their arms scramble back, clutching on the easily parting air, and their black boots refuse to catch on the hard concrete.

It’s a cruel twist of fate, he thinks, as his boss plunges into the boiling solution, a piercing shriek of pain let out for a moment before their head goes fully under. He watches, breath coming harshly and adrenaline coursing through his body, as his boss seems to hit the bottom of the vat, as there’s a muffled thunk and their legs don’t go any further in.

He watches as a horribly burned and hissing thing, barely recognizable as a hand, emerges from the surface, searching blindly for something to grip to. He watches as the limb flops back into the liquid, seemingly with nothing to move or support it.

He watches as the legs stop twitching, as a scent that’s unsettlingly acidic and fleshy permeates the room. 

His face burns, skin mottled with splashes of boiling acid, though he feels stronger now. He killed a person, and they deserved it. This, he knows in his heart, is true.

He turns away from what used to be his employer, and he faces the stares of a dozen or so of his colleagues- if they can even be called that, in this line of work. Some of them look almost bored at the development, far more drastic and gruesome things happening every day, as part of their duties. A couple of them look sympathetically towards his nose, injuries sustained by fits of anger from their boss hitting far too close to home.

Regardless of their demeanor, there’s undeniably an air of tension around the room. Their employer is dead. There’s no hierarchy here, with everyone being ‘just as worthless as each other’, and all people reporting to the boss. They’ve never been prepared for this eventuality. One person pipes up. “What now?” 

That’s really the kicker, isn’t it? He can see that a few seem wary, as their boss would definitely have told them to shoot him. But their boss is dead, and carrying out that order wouldn’t actually do anything. It’s strange, he realizes, just how little is going on right now. Nobody is pointing a gun at his head, nobody made a move to help after their boss took a dip in the acid. 

Most people would assume it’s shock. He knows that it’s because their boss is- _was_ an asshole. They also know that, as soon as one person starts moving, it’ll be a mad race to strip this place for parts, information, and just about anything they can get their hands on. He hears there’s a hand-held death ray prototype in their ex-boss’ ‘office’, which is really just a large industrial safe in the basement.

Not the point. Without their boss, this is just a gathering of morally ambiguous people, around half of whom have criminal records or military backgrounds, with almost nothing holding them together.

Of course, where most people see this as the optimal time to run as far away as possible, he perceives it differently. He sees this as an opportunity. 

“Here’s what’s going to happen.” His voice is low, confident with quiet authority, and he’s sure of himself now. “There’ll be some changes around here. A change in leadership.” He puffs himself up, posture straightening, blue buttoned jacket fitting far better with the slight added height. It doesn’t actually change his stature that much. 

The wording is vague, but everyone can tell what he means. “What makes you more qualified to be the boss than any of us?” The voice is high, nasally with the underlying tell of a cold. (They never were allowed days off for illness.) But they do have a point.

He wants to launch into the plans he has for this place, the way his mind’s eye maps out how this building would be far more improved with a few dividers here and there. How it would be better if outfitted with a real medical wing, as opposed to some shoddy setup that could barely deal with a papercut. He wants to show them the sketches he makes, late at night, crude diagrams with figures and numbers, plans for things he never thought he’d have an opportunity to recreate in real life.

Immediately, though, he settles on the most obvious thing. “I was the one who killed the boss.” There’s a low murmur of assent, he does have a point after all. He can tell that there’s still work to be done, he needs to prove himself to his peers, he needs to be better than what was.

He needs to clean this damn acid off his face. Hopefully it won’t scar too badly.

\----

It’s worse than he thought. He supposes he should just be lucky none of it went in his eyes.

His skin is red and raw all across his nose, with a splash of scarred skin going up over his left eye. His face is ruined. He looks like a monster.

Then again, maybe that’s exactly what he is now. A visual representation of his sins, how far he’s come, how far he’s going to go. His face curls into a frown, pulling grotesquely and painfully at the warped flesh across his brow, at his nose. 

His hands settle on the sides of the sink, looking into the mirror on his bathroom wall. At least he doesn’t take public transport, that would raise more than a few questions. He could probably cover the worst of it up with skin grafts, but his nose is misshapen now. 

Well, if he can’t fix it, he’ll flaunt it. All supervillains need a defining feature, after all. And that’s just what he intends to be. 

\----

He meets with a contact, green eyes and an arm made of steel, who offers him a simple deal. He steals a rare piece of art from a museum, gives it to her, he gets enough money and access to equipment to make it worth his while. She gives him a passive glance towards his nose. He’s used to it by now.

“I could throw something in for that. No extra charge.” 

And so he becomes Sphinx, his masked face a mark of pride and shame. He’s prepared for people to learn to fear him, as he fills the power void as naturally as breathing, expanding his range of influence, taking down all who stand in his way with a ruthless efficiency cultivated by necessity.

What he isn’t prepared for, as his (first, but not final) plan to kidnap the president for ransom is thwarted by an agent who moves with grace in a shirt that’s a size too big, is what he’ll do when some people learn to love him.

**Author's Note:**

> come talk to me at yogdad.tumblr.com about this bisexual egg and budget bond


End file.
